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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29537019">Cranes In The Sky</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy'>clumsycopy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Girls (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Breakup, F/M, Mentions of Sex, No Hapiness Beyond This Point</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:48:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29537019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of the one who’s left with the shock, with the herculean effort to deal with the broken pieces discarded by the other who says “we’re over”. They get to leave, while you get to stay, responsible for dealing with a house full of ghosts.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Adam Sackler/Reader, Adam Sackler/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cranes In The Sky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sunlight filters through your window, beckoning you to open your eyes. Groaning, your brow furrows as you remember shutting every fucking source of outside light to your apartment, but you couldn’t apparently do <em>that</em> right--which doesn’t surprise you--and your bedroom’s window mocks you, opened wide, a gush of wind flowing through it.</p><p>Throwing your covers to the floor, you force yourself to stand, avoiding the sight of your alarm clock, knowing well exactly what it will bare in large, red, bold letters: LATE. You slam the window shut, making sure the blinds are blocking as much as they can.</p><p>The door to your bathroom opens with a slam of your shoulder; you skip the shower and throw cold water over your face, brushing the taste of yesterday's dinner out of your mouth. Shimmying out of your pajamas, you stalk back to your bedroom, digging for something wearable on the dwindling pile clothes in the hamper. Your hand closes around a black sweater; thick and warm, just what you need. As you pull it closer, it dawns on you that there’s something off about it. You don’t quite remember it, which is puzzling, given that you don’t have that many items. The cut… the length, it’s not <em>yours</em>.</p><p>Cussing, you crumple it tight in your fists and hurl it to the farthest corner from you, hoping it disappears through the wall. You pinch the bridge of your nose, diving for your phone in the mess of clothing and assorted objects that have taken the carpeted floor. Once you find it, you turn up Spotify as loud as it will go, letting the music drown your thoughts as you make an attempt to sway to the rhythm while you tidy up.</p><p>When you’re done with the bed and the floor, you gather enough courage to look at your desk. Pausing the music, you wonder how much, <em>if </em>dancing it away helped you. It didn’t, you think, but at least you have less clutter to deal with now. You catch your reflection on the small round mirror that adorns your wall, the new color of your hair startling you for the hundredth time. Coloring your hair didn’t change anything either--well, except for its color--but at least now it’s <em>fun</em>. It’s blue. It helps you distance yourself from the memories that run like a reel non-stop in your head. You’re not that person anymore, not dating him anymore, because that person didn’t have blue hair like you do.</p><p>Refocusing your attention, you look over to your sleek, wooden table, and regret doing so. Mugs in various stages of cleanliness scatter across your desk, stained with deep coffee marks; a stack of plates remains in place by a sheer miracle and somehow your work sits beneath this mess unscathed. It’s a good thing it does, you need it, a lot of it, to pay up for the non-ending stream of boxes that are delivered to your door every 2 days, full of crap that you can’t wrap your head around ever buying. It’s a wonder your card still can buy anything, you wish it had shut off already, but looking at the silver lining--isn’t it all you do these days?--you get to throw yourself into your work. </p><p>That’s certainly an improvement of how you dealt with it at first. Having something to do should trump having nothing to do, lest you find yourself taking up things like <em>jogging</em>, ending up running around Central Park, running yourself dizzy, torn between hoping and dreading you’d bump into Sackler. Which doesn’t sound so bad, compared to your other peculiar methods of coping.</p><p>Tinder was a low point, the rock bottom. Never again. Even through the worst, he cared about you enough to make you cum. The string of nameless guys with forgettable faces didn’t even manage that.</p><p>Transferring the pile of unread books that now serves quite well as a coaster for dust, you tuck them under the desk, making an internal note to read them later. Someday.</p><p>Balancing the dishes on your arms, you wobble to the kitchen, throw them in the sink, hoping that crack you heard wasn’t anything serious, and hop back to your room, slouching on your chair and waiting for your laptop to fire up. You tug at the corner of a sticker that has started to peel off your laptop, laughing at the irony of it, of all stickers that could deteriorate, the one he gifted you does, rubbing a bit more of salt on the wound.</p><p>Colorful lighting flits across your face as you log in your computer and jump between the endless open tabs and programs, checking in the batch of unread emails, mind scrambling to remember what the hell you had been working on, and whom you were supposed to report back and when.</p><p>Your gaze tracks across the grey, dead shadows of your room, stopping at the window to your left, sweeping up the horizontal panes of the blinds. Drawing in a deep breath, you let it go as a tired sigh, rising from your seat and trudging over to stand in front of the window, a persistent beam of light slipping through the cracks and shining upon you. Tugging at the cord, you incline your head to the side as you open the curtains and light floods into your comfortless sanctuary. </p><p>There’s no blue to be seen on the sky, instead a mass of grey and white and nothing.</p><p><em>How fitting</em>.</p><p>Pressing a hand against the glass pane, your eyes flicker up, trying to see something beneath the cranes in the sky; a gleam of warm sunlight; a tumble of rain; anything. You’re tired of feeling everything and nothing at the same time, begging your mind not to yearn for the hopeless recovery of the bond that’s severed and for all effects, over.</p><p>Clenching your jaw, you don’t let yourself look down, not when you know you will search for him as he used to be: sprinting through the cobblestone street and dashing up the stairs to your apartment, a warm dinner tucked under his arm, his stupid backpack flung over his shoulder.</p><p>An errant tear slides down your cheek, and soon it’s not alone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my first time writing a song fic, based on Cranes In The Sky, so this is very tentative, almost no editing, full-on stream of consciousness writing, but I hope you like it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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